A Tale of Olive and Clementines
by Neo-Pop
Summary: A series of petstuck drabbles and one-shots depicting the eventful life between Dirk and Nepeta. A bunch of pale fluff, will be updated almost daily.
1. Day 1

She handn't moved more than an inch since you had found her. The little troll just huddled into the corner of your living room, ignoring the food you had offered her, and nursed her hands quietly. Whenever you approached she'd stop her grooming and grow a low, throaty sound that slowly progressed to a full out hiss.

That probably explained her outlook on humans. Hell, maybe nobody had owned her in the past. You had found her lying in the gutter, banged up and hardly breathing. She had a huge bruise blossoming on the side of her head, and for a brief moment, you feared she was dead.

But she wasn't.

You never trusted animal kennels. They probably didn't take trolls anyway. Trolls come from an online source, either in an egg or a cage. The troll you had found unconscious in the streets was most likely from an egg, judging by her size.

She was small, the height of a three year old human. Her tail was about two and a half a feet long. But for something her size, she was viscous. Upon awakening in the crook of your arm, she had shredded it to ribbons, along with the sleeves of your favorite hoodie. Jane had sent it to you from New York. You had quickened your pace home and as soon as you had shut the door behind you (and the rest of the doors throughout the house) you allowed her to leap from your arms onto the ground, where she scuttled around frantically before hightailing it to the corner.

After roaming your home and scouting for anything potentially deadly for the troll, you had returned to the troll and tossed the now trashed pullover towards the troll, who eyed it carefully before dragging the maroon scrap over her spot in the room. It was sorta cute, watching something so little carrying a mouthful of fabric twice her size. You had even assisted by scooting her along gingerly with the side of your sneaker. You think she might have appreciated it, due to the lack of an aggressive hiss. As of right now the creature was nestled deep within the folds of the hood. You can hear her running her tongue over her sore pawfeet, and her tail occasionally flicking.

You were concerned about the blow to her head. Had someone struck her, or had she fallen? You want to ask. But you don't think that trolls her age can talk. The most verbal sounding thing you had heard her make was a surprised yowl and desperate hissing.

Your arms were fine; the long lines of an angry red color that ran that cut through your pale skin were like cat scratches. But damn, did they ache.

All you had been meaning to do today was relax, get groceries, and relax some more. Maybe watch a flick or talk to Roxy.

Turned out all you were going to do for the next four hours of daylight was try to nurse a troll back to health. You decide to seek advice from Roxy, who owned a troll of her own. She'd know what to do. You stationed yourself on the couch, facing the kitchen, your right side exposed to the troll. She watched you carefully as you dialed your pal's number on the phone and hold it up to your ear. It took a while for Roxy to answer.

"Lalonde residence, what doya want."

"Roxy, I need to speak with you."

"Yeah Dirk, I'm doing great, thanks for askin. Wassup."

"I found a troll."

You're pretty sure she just spit her water all over the place. Or wine. Or something.

"You found a troll?"

"Yeah. On the street. What do I do?"

"Well I don't know, does she have any collars or somethin'?"

"No, I didn't see any. I don't think I can check either."

"Why not?"

" She tore up my arms as soon as she woke up. I think she'll shred my face next if I get too close. I really don't want to mess up my hair either. It took me forever to style this morning."

"Ohmigosh Dirk, it won't kill you kneel down and look."

"Let's just settle with the fact that she doesn't have a collar. Look, I know you have a troll. I know Jane has one too, but she hasn't answered my calls."

"Jake wants to get one."

"Really?"

"Heehee, yeah, you know him."

"Bless the poor thing that winds up with him."

"Oh come on, we both know he's capable of lookin' over a bundle of luv. Ain't that right Equius?" You were slightly startled as the troll on your end sneezed loudly and glanced back at her. She had an expression of surprise before she caught your gaze and squinted back at you. Okay right, back to the conversation.

"Okay sure, but I told you about the bruise on her head, right? What do I do about that?"

"Just keep an eye on her. If she gets sick or something haul her booty to the vet. Give her a bath or something if she'll let ya."

"Alright. Is there anything she can or can't have or…"

"Food wise, trolls can almost have any kind of food you and I eat. Look it up on the net. Don't give her booze though. Not a good idea."

"Oh my god, Roxy—"

"Give her a shirt or something to wear too, I guess. I know Janey leaves a couple of shirts at your place sometimes, eheehee."

"She doesn't, and even if she did I wouldn't give it to a troll I found in the gutter."

That means you'd have to sacrifice a shirt to the pack of claws and fangs currently teething on your ruined hoodie. Urgh.

"That it?"

"Yeah."

"Aight. You call if you need anything else, kay? I gots to run."

"Okay."

"Sounds like you don't know what you're doing."

"Nonsense, I know precisely what I'm doing. She's like an angry gerbil or something. A little itty bitty gerbil."

"Who can talk and think and feel."

"Right right, good impressions, I hear you. Bye." You both hang up.

Sigh.

Turn.

Stare.

Yep, she's looking right back at you. She probably knows what's up.

"Right. So." You gesture to the house. "Yeah. My place. Don't fuck up the couch or get on the table." She blinks her big olive eyes at you. You think she gets the gist. "Or the carpet."

Oh god, she doesn't understand a word you're saying, does she.

You disregard small talk and stalk into your room, retrieving a shirt that was a little too small on you, and return. You toss it into the halfway point between the two of you. You point to the rumpled fabric and then to yourself.

"Put that on."

She remains still. With an impatient huff you lift the shirt on your figure above your head before returning it to its original state.

"Like that." You point to the shirt again. "You try."

The troll doesn't move. You watch her for about a minute or two before you turn your back on her.

God, what have you done. You should've just called animal control or something. Sure, you always thought trolls were neat. Especailly Jane's and Roxy's. But you clearly weren't ready for a pet, and neither was your house.

Jane had a lively little sea troll who never really seemed to hold still. He had a long mane of hair that no matter how many times Jane brushed it remained disheveled looking. She refused to cut it. Her ears were shaped like fins, and you were pretty sure that if her owner let her, Feferi would swim all day.

Roxy's troll, unlike Jane's, was mellow and quiet. He liked to follow her around and sometimes life up furniture. You think he might have broken Roxy's pinky by accident or something like that. She said that he had been really bummed throughout her recovery.

Both trolls were bigger than the one you had retrieved off the streets. Well, a little bigger. They might have grown. Equius grows like a weed. You're not sure about Feferi. You haven't seen her for a while either.

You're startled when you pick up the sound of rustling fabric, and turn to see the little troll struggling into the shirt you had offered. Her horns bulged under the fabric for a moment before she forced her head through the larger gap. Her tail twitched in determination and she wriggled her rump before lunging forward, rolling head over paws into your leg. She remains still for a moment before wriggling again, this time belting out little noises of frustration. You quietly kneel down and assist, easily finding her shoulders and slipping the shirt over her head and her arms through the sleeves.

"One sec," you say, adjusting the shirt. It fit her like an oversized dress, but it successfully covered her body. Judging by the little flicks of her tail, however, she didn't like it. Ignoring your close range, she hefts the bottom of the shirt up to her hips. When she lets the bunched up fabric free from her tiny grasp it falls back to the floor. She narrows her eyes in concentration and tried again. And again. And again. Eventually you intervene and, rather unhappily, tear off a couple inches to her liking. She twitched her nose, sniffs the left side of your sleeve, and then fixated her stare back at you. Right. Okay. She does understand. Awesome.

"…Right. Better?" After a pause, she nods. Well shit, look at that. You have a little thing going on now. Progress, something you love to make. She didn't seem so terrified now, only mildly curious. Now that you're up close, you can give her a good look over.

Her arms and legs are bruised, but it doesn't look like she's favoring either of them. There are, however a couple of sores on the top of her feet, as well as a couple scratches. Her lips were harshly chapped, and there was a gross cluster of dried olive crust embedded on the side of her head, as well as under her nose. You discover that this is blood. Geez, what a trooper.

You conclude that she isn't severely injured, besides the concern invoking bruise blooming on the right side of her head.

"Alright come on, we're gonna clean you up." You make your way to the bathroom and fish around in the cabinet for a clean washcloth, and turn to find that your little companion is absent. Okay, this was going to be a lot more difficult than you thought. You return to find her clambering onto the couch, obviously disregarding the rules you had laid out earlier. "Hey now, work with me here, it takes two to tango."

And tango you did; you most likely spent about ten minutes chasing her around the room, crawling under side tables and leaping over the couch a good five times before you manage to get a hand full of her shirt and falling into a heap upon the floor. She lets out a high pitched squeal that ends off in a fit of giggles as you work the damp washcloth on her face. Soon enough she swats away your hands and takes the wash cloth, insisting in her own weird way that she can do it herself. In all honesty you're a little surprised at how quickly she had overcome her distress. She'd only been in your home for about two hours. Didn't cats take like, what weeks to get used to their new surroundings?

She shoved her nose into the damp cloth and smeared her olive blood all over the fabric before offering the stained cloth back. She has green all over her face like now. You take it and finish the job.

"Better?"

"Yup!"

Hoooooly shit she can talk. Things just got five times easier. You think.

"Awesome. You can talk. I told you not to ruin that couch." You gesture toward the pinpricks embedded in the fabric. She shrugs. "Claws on the couch. That's a no." The expression on her face betrayed that she didn't really seem to care. You tap your temple. "What happened to your head?" She patted her head slightly with a wince.

"Got hit. Yesterday."

"Does it hurt?"

"Duh."

"Okay, let's cut back on the sass. I mean do you have a headache or something."

"No."

"Dizzy?"

"No."

"Are you going to spew your guts all over my carpet because I literally just vacuumed this morning."

"Ew, no!"

"Okay if you'd actually said something instead of ripping up my rad pullover and having a hissy fit earlier we could have gotten along a lot faster."

"I don't know you."

Oh, stranger danger. Damn, she was a smart cookie. You sigh and lift yourself up from the ground.

Now you had a lot more to do this week.


	2. Week 2

_Week 2_

Not a single lamp post, mail box, or billboard distanced between your house and the city area lacked a piece of paper plastered to their surfaces bearing the face of Nepeta. (That's what she calls herself. Since she lacks a collar with an ID, you don't really have an option to believe otherwise. But you did start to call her shorty. It bugs her.)

However not a single living soul called or message about the troll popped up on your cell or E-mail.

For the first two days of the week she remained stationed in the living room, spending most of her time in her corner curled up on your—_her _hoodie, sleeping through the hours that seemed to tick by at a sloth's pace. She ate little portions of the food you offered her, but whole heartedly accepted the water that came with it. She'd watch you tap away on your laptop, and sometimes she'd trail out to the backyard. You had left the door open for her. You know she'd return. And she did.

But after those two days passed, she seemed to regain strength. A _lot _of strength, with an added shot of energy. Now you had to make sure all the doors in your home were closed so she wouldn't wreck havoc, and you had to keep an e careful eye on her. She almost tore apart Lil' Cal. You told her that he was off limits. She pouted for the rest of that day. She had begun eating much more, along with your leftovers. She'd gotten faster, and the cuts on her body seemed to be healing at a much faster pace. You figured that out there in the city she must have been thoroughly exhausted and starving every day of the week. She probably got some of those nasty scratches in a scat. Not that you can blame her, the city life is rough.

She had begun pushing your boundaries; scratching the sofa, dragging her claws across the carpet, and, to your horror, chewing enthusiastically on your hair. Nepeta had also begun speaking much more. You think she learned her vocabulary from other civilians, much like a human baby does. She absolutely loathes you correcting her speech, and sometimes she beats you to the end of a sentence.

But it wasn't like had let her get her way. In fact, you had pressed her boundaries as well. While she's off guard, you'd taken your chance and pinned her down, running a brush rather harshly through her disgustingly tangled hair. She'd yelled and screamed and had thrown an absolute tantrum, biting any skin she could sink her teeth and claws into; but she never broke the skin or caused bleeding. She'd scream about how she'd go bald if you weren't gentle, but as the pile of dead hair and other nasty things you REALLY don't want to know about began to grow, the brush began to make its way easily through the greasy strands. But there were some knots you couldn't remove with the brush alone; so while she was asleep you cut the knots out. (She was fuming in the morning and threatened to cut your hair.

You told her hell no.)

It's not like her hair looked horrifying; you had styled it pretty well. She soon came to appreciate its length. You told her it looked nicer.

She's fiercely independent, much like yourself. Now whenever you try brushing her hair she'd insist she could do it herself, and you'd let her. She didn't do as good of a job as you could, but it was definitely better than having mistreated hair.

However many times you let her rub her face with a damp washcloth, it never chased away the gag inducing sent that clung to her. As she began to regain health, the smell grew worse. It was getting to the point where it made you want to vomit. So you dragged your ass to the grocery store, asked what kind of soap you're supposed to use on trolls, dragged your plush rump back home, and made sure that all the doors were closed, assuring that she wouldn't be able to escape.

She watched you carefully as you while went on with your task, and as soon as you spun on your heel and sprinted towards her, she screeched and ran like a bat out of hell and sped the opposite direction. And god DAMN was the little shit fast. You didn't even pause when you caught her arm, you had hightailed it to the kitchen right away, threw off her shirt, and sprayed her with water.

Giving her a bath was like trying to Jane in a swimming pool; hella difficult. Nepeta screeched and hissed and occasionally splashed you in the face with generous amounts of soapy water. Multiple times she tried to scramble over your shoulder and launch herself onto the counter, but you ended up wrestling her back into the cold steel basin. You ended up discarding your shades furiously so you could see, but in return you got suds in your eyes. By the time you were satisfied with the outcome, the kitchen was in a state of absolute chaos mess, your hair drooped in your face, your arms bore fresh scratches and bite marks, and you were soaked to the bone. Both of your voices were run raw, but thankfully Nepeta had exhausted her energy supply, and made little resistance when you scooped her up and tossed a towel onto her damp body. You dried her off, helped her into a clean shirt, and gave her hair a good sniff.

_**Definitely **_better.

"Was that so bad," you had heaved. She punched your arm.

"That was hell!"

You shrugged off the complaint and went to get her a brush.

Since then you both had warmed up to each other considerably, to your shock. Five days after the day you gave her a bath, she had begun following you everywhere and approached you out of will. Physical contact was now friendly, and she had now made a habit of hanging around your neck when you sat on the couch. Unlike you, she seemed to warm up to people quickly. But you didn't resist her touch until she tried to screw up your hair.

You had reported everything that happened to Roxy, who said that you were doing fine.

All in all Nepeta was recovering to full health and didn't show any signs of illness, which put your mind at ease.

However if no one came to claim the little troll within another couple of weeks, you weren't exactly sure what you'd do.

You weren't going to send her back to the streets, and you weren't taking her to a shelter either.

You asked Roxy to start putting flyers up by her region as well.


	3. Week 4

_Week 4, Day 2_

Not a single message had popped up on your phone claiming ownership over your little friend. The only person who ever came to the door with news was the mailman.

Roxy had also remained message free, unfortunately.

Other than that, you think that Nepeta is making a quick recovery. Although she hadn't been here long, she'd pretty much dominated everything in your living room and kitchen. You had to really start watching her closely, because sometimes she'd get into the kitchen cabinets and take stuff that you were absolutely positive trolls shouldn't get their paws on. Last week she'd asked you for a glass of Pine-Sol and you'd nearly jumped right out of your skin. (You gave her the apple juice she desired and demanded that she stayed out of the cabinets. Food was in the fridge.

…She had started getting into your sodas.)

Every three days you wrestle her into the bathtub, since the sink made things three times more difficult, and wash her as thoroughly as you can without getting your eyes ripped out. When the battle is over she hauls herself over the edge, lands onto the tiled floor with a wet splat, and sneezes miserably before shaking her body free of the water that clung to her little body. Sometimes you beat her to it and scoop her up in a towel. You think she's starting to get used to the whole bathing schedule. You know this because every couple of days you see her glaring down at you from the top of a shelf.

(She once waited outside the bathroom door with a towel because you forgot to grab one during your legendary showers.)

The only drastic change that had occurred since her stay had taken place the day before her second time with the bath tub.

You had decided that she was well enough to sleep without your presence (You had made a makeshift out of the couch so you could keep a nocturnal eye on her while she slept in her corner) and had moved back to your bedroom. It was the usual night routine; you'd change her shirt, give her a washcloth so she could drag sloppily across her face, and run a brush through her hair. It was almost like that one time you babysat with Jane, only with a lot more complaints and fighting and chasing. She'd curl up in her little pile of cloth and yawn, and you'd get up and retreat to the couch. Only this time you'd grabbed your pillow and offered her the fleece throw over you had used as a blanket. She gave you a baffled look as you strode your way back you your bedroom with a 'see you in the mornin' short stuff'.

When you changed and got into bed it was quiet. It was also soundless when the sweet pull of sleep pulled you into its depths. But in the morning you had been awoken with the sound of shuffling coming from the other side of your door. You figured that she was having a tough time sleeping, but it was quickly proven incorrect when you heard her mewling at your door. At least you think she was mewling. All you knew is that she had been at your door making weird troll noises.

You had brushed it off; she'd get over it.

She didn't. It only progressed. Two nights after the following procedure, she had begun scratching at your door late at night. And when daylight broke and you had finished getting changed, you'd open the door and she'd be there, with your torn hoodie, stationed in front of your bedroom door. You'd almost stepped on her hip. After a brief moment of slight bafflement you'd shrug it off and haul her over to the couch. Then came breakfast, the brushing of teeth and hair, and then you'd begin your lessons on your laptop while she climbed all over you like a jungle gym.

Eventually you had found a distraction for her.

"Hey," you had said, plucking her off the back of your head. "I'm trying to study, Go find something else to do." She wriggled in your hands.

"But there's nothing to _do_! I've looked everywhere for something to play with!" She wasn't lying. You'd caught her trying to open the doors in the hallway on more than one occasion.

"There's plenty to do, you're just lazy."

"You're the lazy one!" You digress. You've taken up morning workouts because you've started slacking off. "That doesn't count." After a few minutes of brainstorming you find something for her to do.

"You see these notes? Yeah, the ones you tried to eat. I sometimes need to write down stuff. You've watched me. I want you to alphabetize these. All of em'." You slap your hand on a black binder. "And file them in here."

"What's alphabetizing?"

Oh. Right.

"You know the alphabet right? You might have rummaged through some sort of cheesy kids menu or something while going through the trash."

"I wouldn't be able to read it anyway."

So you'd pretty much pulled a five minute lesson about english outta your ass and wrote down the alphabet on a sheet of paper. After you'd shown her how to use a pen, you made her write the alphabet. ('Just copy these totally awesome symbols. Piece of cake.'

'I want cake.'

'Maybe later.')

You'd both been on a roll with your lessons since then. You did it. You totally found a suitable distraction. It wouldn't hurt to teach a troll how to read anyway.

And she dove into it like a champion. Soon enough she was able to scribble out some letters all over a sheet of paper, and after you had taught her more about the mighty power of literature, she had started writing out sentences you had said mumbled during your tests. You tell her to trash those. She refuses and stuffs them into the pocket of her hoodie.

As you watched her prance away towards her corner, you briefly wonder if you should purchase her some new clothing. And maybe one of those kids text books or something you pass on the way to the ramen aisle.

She loves writing your names. Sometimes you'll find her name taped to furniture, while you'd find your name taped to the carpet. You hope she's not implying some sort of territorial thing, because you don't want to step up and do some weirdo troll territory dance or something like that. She had even taped "Roxy" onto your phone.

They'd have to get together sometime.

You have reached an obstacle when it came to her diet, and that obstacle was known as a Snickers bar. You'd shared a bit with her a week ago while watching a TV show, and ever since then she'd refuse to eat what you gave her and demanded Snickers. Whenever you were preparing to leave she'd order you to bring back Snickers. (And you do. You deserve a whap on the head for that.) You told her that if she wanted the candy bar, she'd have to eat dinner. And she'd reluctantly apply.

(Now you have a box of Snickers hidden in the closet.)

As for the sleeping situation? You're both working on it.


End file.
